1. Harlow

CHAPTER 1

HARLOW

I ’m having an “Ooh, is that a squirrel?” moment. Or ten of them strung together by one distractivity after another.

As the keynote speaker drones on about how professional development interfaces with mitigating risks and maximizing profit, I find myself keenly focused on the equation of distraction + activity = distractivity.

“On page seven, subsection C of your handout packet program booklet, you’ll find—” the speaker says.

One of the metal light holders in the overhead chandelier configuration is slightly askew and I wonder how tall a ladder would be necessary to adjust it. Would I be brave enough to climb that high? Maybe with an OSHA-approved harness.

“Now, if you consider the implications of strategic caseload management—” Blah, blah, blah.

The tag on the blouse worn by the woman seated in front of me is visible through the semi-sheer fabric. Could I fix it without her noticing? She twitches but doesn’t turn around.

“To maintain relevance in the ever-changing landscape of litigation, you must—” Blah, blah, blah . A man with stubby arms got the last cinnamon spice bagel this morning at the breakfast buffet. I had a blueberry bagel instead. Would it be weird to go to the coffee shop down the street and have another bagel for lunch? Fingers crossed they have cinnamon spice. I’m in my autumn flavors era.

“The challenges attorneys face, include—” Blah, blah, blah .

If my best friend Teddy were here, we’d skip out and do something wild, like find secret rooms at the conference center, sneak into the pastry kitchen, and somehow get free tickets to a standup comedy show.

Whenever we’re together, we have fun. The guy is the human embodiment of laughter and is very friendable. Everyone loves Teddy. Except for the opposing teams when on the ice and hockey fans who hassle him and the press when they get in his face. He plays for the Nebraska Knights and is ruthless. Well, until he got injured.

“The congruence of caseload efficiency and innovation—” Blah, blah, blah.

Put me in front of a client who’s a veteran with a disability and has a VA claim, and I’m on it. Present a particularly tricky Constitutional rights violation and you have my full attention. But this portion of the conference is about the business side of running a law office, which I do single-handedly, thank you very much.

At present, I work for Preston & Lemieux Legal Logistics, founded by my late father and his best friend Cheever Preston. I’m good at what I do because I care about people, but this career path wasn’t my first, second, or even third choice. If I could give it up today, I would, and not because I don’t see the value of good lawyers.

I run the show even though I’m not the Lemieux named in the partnership. That would be my mother, who is not a lawyer. Through a particularly stubborn legal loophole that Cheever Preston found in my father’s will, my mother was named partner. Cheever retired, making his son, Penn, a partner. I’d argue in the court of law that Penn isn’t authorized to have the word esquire attached to his name, but he somehow made it through school, floating up through the cracks. If anything, the guy is a liability. According to my mother, it’s up to me to carry on the family legacy. It’s what Dad wanted.

I’m stuck.

This leaves me to run the show myself because Penn is probably at the conference center pool sipping a frilly drink and having some poor woman he met in the bar last night apply sunblock to his hairy back.

I physically squirm. The guy gives me the heebs.

My phone vibrates in my bag, and I sneak a peek. I’m in one of the back rows, so no one will notice. It’s a text message from Chad-Phoenix—my boyfriend-ish. To be discreet, I slide it under the handout packet program booklet for today’s events.

Tapping on our message thread, I have to read it twice because Chad-Phoenix is less of a jokester and more of a self-important vibrational sound practitioner who operates in his own manosphere. Then again, I’ve been accused of having a personality that’s less cheerful sunshine and more moody with a chance of showers. At least, that’s what Penn says when I raise objections to his ill-advised and sometimes illegal suggestions for how to increase our bottom line.

The bad ideas running rampant are a common thread in my life lately—Penn and Chad-Phoenix propagating both.

So why am I dating someone who calls himself Chad-Phoenix Mystic-Flash? I’ve been asking myself that for weeks.

Penn said I needed to relax and got me a gift card for Chad-Phoenix’s services. (They’re recent step-brothers—Penn’s mother is on husband number six, who is Chad-Phoenix’s father.) Ever since my “sound shower,” Chad-Phoenix has been a stray in my life. In my defense, he’s a sticky kind of person who’s hard to get rid of and even harder to say no to—probably because he’s spoiled and has been told yes his entire life, but I digress.

Wait. I’m going to digress again and come clean about something. My mother suggested (in air quotes) that dating Chad-Phoenix would be beneficial to the firm by uniting our families. It’s hard to say no to her and not because she’s persuasive. More like I’d have traveled around the world if I earned frequent flyer miles from her guilt trips.

I reread the message.

Chad-Phoenix: Knock, knock.

Me: Um, who’s there?

Chad-Phoenix: It’s me.

Me: Yeah, I know. You texted .

Chad-Phoenix: You’re supposed to say, “It’s me who?”

Rolling my eyes, I comply, wondering if he’s had too much kombucha or one of the other health bio hacks he spends obscene amounts of his parents’ money on. His mother is the Concordian royal hat designer and his father is a music industry giant whose clients include Dream Boiyz—yes, the boy band sensation.

Me: It’s me who?

Chad-Phoenix: It’s not you, it’s me.

The keynote speaker mentions a case illustrating a reverse equalization metric for scaling productivity, and I wonder if there’s one I could use to understand Chad-Phoenix’s sense of humor—or lack thereof.

When the room erupts in clapping, signaling the end of the talk, I realize what just happened.

Me: You’re breaking up with me?

Me: Over text?

Me: You seriously just dumped me with a knock-knock joke?

While everyone filters out of the ballroom and beelines the coffee and refreshment table, I follow in a daze.

This should come as no surprise. Chad-Phoenix wasn’t “the one,” but the breakup still stings because my relationships never make it past the sevens—seven days, seven weeks, or seven months—that was a record by a mile set during my sophomore year in high school. Bryce and I never made it past the hand-holding at the movies phase, but we were both afraid to break up with the other. Makes me wonder about the whole seven-year itch thing.

That pesky not-so-little insecurity whispers in my mind like two high school mean girls gossiping while their gazes dart pointedly in my direction. Chad-Phoenix’s breakup proves that most guys generally tolerate me, but they don’t enjoy my company. At least not long term.

Then the feisty girl inside fires back at the mean girls—full volume. I said most guys . At least there’s Teddy. He isn’t like most guys. He’s my best friend, and he’s going to be wearing a smug mug when I tell him about what Chad-Phoenix did.

But for now, I could go for a bagel . . . or a churro, but I don’t know where I’d find one around here.

“Harlow,” Penn calls, strutting toward me with his shirt only half tucked like he just rolled out of bed. Meanwhile, it’s nearly lunchtime. “Babe, did you take notes?”

My eyebrows rise several inches—yes, several—not only because Penn has no business calling me babe , but because we’re surrounded by colleagues. “Babe?” I repeat.

He nudges me with his elbow. “Overslept. They say this is the city that never sleeps, well, not until after dawn. Am I right?”

Keeping it PG-rated, I say, “I didn’t take notes because I’m confident in my professional responsibility skills, risk management, and the overall administration of the firm.”

“I invited you to come to the conference because I figured you’d put in an appearance, we’d make the rounds, and then we could—” He points to me and then to himself before tipping his head toward the door.

The faint odor of stale alcohol wafts my way. Don’t tell me the guy is day drinking. I’ve had my suspicions, but this is unacceptable.

He continues, “Then, you know, we could bounce, and then have a little fun of our own.”

Babe? Bounce? Who is this guy ?

I’ve been told that I have a “Resting Grump Face.” It’s a natural scowl that warns people not to approach me unless invited. Penn just crossed all the lines.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t understand the deal?” he asks.

“The deal?” My tone lowers toward a growl. The feline kind that if heard in the dark would raise the hair on the back of your neck.

“The arrangement.” His eyes turn heavy and his lips pop suggestively.

Mine narrow. “Might I remind you that I’m technically your employee?”

“That makes me the boss. Don’t want you thinking otherwise, even after winning that hot tech lawsuit recently.”

“Thanks for the reminder and for keeping my bonus,” I say glibly, then add, “Not to mention that you’re Chad-Phoenix’s brother who?—”

“Stepbrother,” he corrects.

“And the guy who I was dating until twenty minutes ago.” I ought to text Chad-Phoenix back and thank him for dumping me, but I did not see this coming. Penn must’ve drunk too much liquid courage—or should I say liquid idiocy?

Wearing a self-satisfied smile, Penn reports, “C-P said we’re cool so long as it aligns with our energetic frequencies.”

I steel my patience.

“I saw the way you looked at me during the Meet & Mingle last night,” Penn practically purrs.

Gag. Forget the bagel. I’m going to be ill. “The dubious look was because you had that creamy cheese spread on your lips after you housed half the appetizer tray.”

He wags his eyebrows. “You make me hungry, babe.”

A switch flips inside. No, it’s more like one of those big red buttons that says DO NOT PUSH . That’s it. I’m done.

I shove the handout packet program booklet into Penn’s hands and say, “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“I quit.”

Startled, he jumps. “You what?—?”

“I’m officially notifying you of the termination of our agreement hereof due to a breach of employer obligations per the conduct clause. Upon receipt of this notice, you acknowledge that the remainder of my salary will be paid in full for services rendered. Your indemnification obligations are forthwith required in their entirety. My employment with Preston & Lemieux Legal Logistics is now null and void, along with the remainder of our agreement. Any further rights and remediations are waived. Questions and objections can be raised in writing care of my lawyer, aka me.” I don’t even know if what I said made sense, but I storm away before Penn has a chance to ask me to explain what he should readily understand, then stop short when I hear my name announced.

“Our romantic getaway for two raffle winner is Harlow Lemieux. Congratulations!”

I’d like to exit stage left, but the raffle winner announcer has a partner in crime who must be looking for me because she waves a ribbon of paper raffle tickets overhead, flagging me down.

In a haze, I zone out while she tells me about the fabulous prize. Meanwhile, all I can think about is how ironic this is. She gives me a glossy pamphlet, a box of chocolates, and a lot to think about.

When I get back to Tulsa, I grab the mail and amidst sales circulars, offers of credit, and donation requests from organizations that may or may not be legit, I find one of those thick card stock envelopes with embossing.

It’s another wedding invitation. Just about everyone from my high school and college friend groups has coupled off.

My life’s landscape is changing before my eyes. Up next will be Teddy who gets hitched, I just know it. That’ll leave only me single, and we all know one is the loneliest number.

Dumping my bag on the floor by the door next to my roller skates, I tip backward over the top of the couch, legs bent over the cushions, and stare at the ceiling.

I don’t realize how very numb I feel in general—in my life—until I get pins and needles in my feet. With a long sigh, I shift to sitting—kind of. It’s more of a sad slouch. I stuff one of the chocolates from my prize package in my mouth before pulling out my phone. I’ll call Teddy. He’s the one person in the world who always understands me. He’ll help me see the humor in this situation.

He answers on the second ring. “Hey, Shorty.”

“Hey, Hot Shot.”

“You sound miserable.” Even though he isn’t wrong, his deep voice instantly comforts me. Is it weird to say that Teddy is my real-life teddy bear? Yeah, probably.

“You know those days you want to erase?” I ask.

“I’ve had a few of those. Lay it on me.”

“It went like this: Chad-Phoenix broke up with me?—”

“It was overdue.”

I tell him the knock-knock joke text message.

Teddy chokes out a chuckle. “Wow. That’s harsh, and there I thought Chad-Phoenix was the dullest person on the planet.”

“You never met him.”

“His vibe was really vibey. Plus, you told me everything I need to know to make an accurate character assessment. He didn’t make you laugh. You fought constantly. He thought churros were an abomination.”

All true. All reasons Chad-Phoenix and I weren’t meant to be.

With Teddy, everything is normal. Despite what people think of me, I want normal. I built a buffer of snark around myself to keep real emotions at bay. Teddy is an oasis in a sea of absurdity—both my own and everyone else’s.

I’m well aware that my job has been gnawing away at my soul. I usually take out my frustrations at jams, skating with the Tulsa City Tornados roller derby team, and then sip a calming custom blend of Sereni-Tea so I can sleep (and face another day at Preston & Lemieux).

Not anymore, suckers!

One might also argue that my feelings are bound and locked away, so I don’t have to make hard choices. As for the ones I feel toward Chad-Phoenix? There aren’t really any to speak of, which says a lot, actually. But for Penn, it’s anger, jealousy, resentment. All the bad ones. With Teddy, it’s different.

“How’s the injury?” I ask.

“What injury?” He’s of the mind that if he ignores the torn ACL, it’ll go away. Some people call it denial. He believes in the power of positive thinking.

“Chad-Phoenix would boast about his energetic mind ray healing method and try to upsell you on purchasing a premier package from his website.”

A commotion in the background blots out Teddy’s response.

“You seem busy,” I say.

“Not too busy for you.”

My chest squeezes. I tell myself it’s because it’s been a day . “In an ironic twist, I won the raffle at the conference for a romantic getaway trip for two.”

“I take it Chad-Phoenix won’t be joining you.”

“Not unless he teleports with a quasi-spectrum-radial tractor beam.” The guy was well beyond woo-woo.

Teddy chuckles because he’s acquainted with my skepticism about Chad-Phoenix’s so-called powers.

“We should press pause on our lives and go,” Teddy says.

“Go?” I ask, not grasping his meaning.

“We should get away.”

The dimness inside brightens. I skim the prize pamphlet. “Really? There are a few locations to choose from. An island vacay in North Carolina, a wine crawl in Napa, and a cozy cabin in Maple Falls, Washington.”

“Maple Falls, Washington?” he repeats.

“Maple Falls, Washington,” I confirm. “My cousin Angel lives there, but I never visited.” She was from that side of the family even though we connected as kids and are even closer now that we’re adults.

“No way. Small world. I was invited to play on a charity team while Coach Badaszek has me on hold. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to commit, but this is a sign. Let’s do it. You, me, and Maple Falls.”

“Yeah?” I ask, my breath quick, hardly believing he’s going along with it.

“Yeah.” Enthusiasm laces Teddy’s voice like he’s ready for an adventure. I could use an escape.

We talk about details and make arrangements before saying goodbye. But I didn’t tell him all the breaking news. I quit my job.

I quit my job!

Jumping to my feet, my hand flies to my forehead. I start pacing. I’m a pretty chill person, some would say chilly , but this is huge. Possibly a disaster or an Olympic-level triumph.

I started working at Preston & Lemieux when I was in high school, helping out with filing and regular office-type tasks. But my ears were always open, and I picked up on things fast. Since I stayed in Tulsa for college, I was able to work there nights and weekends. Then Dad passed away suddenly.

My mother said his dying wish was for me to take his position as a partner once I graduated. Instead, I’m holding the firm together. Turns out, he was the glue and not the slick kind of lawyer who gives the industry a bad reputation. Whoever thought his partner would slack off and his son would be worse?

This is a problem because my mother’s only source of income is from a fund Dad set up that’s tied to the firm. It’s a complicated snarl of legalese from my dad’s estate. Sadly, try as I might, I can’t untangle it unless the firm dissolves its articles of incorporation or Mom takes Preston & Lemieux to court. She refuses. Says she won’t sully Dad’s legacy.

I tip my head to the side. It’s not the worst idea. But my mother could never handle that. Whereas I’m made of thorns and bramble, she’s a delicate flower.

Cradling my head in my hands, I fret because my life blew up.

But I lit the fuse. This is bad. So bad.

What better way to pretend I’m not suddenly living in a war zone than to go away with Teddy?

He contends that my general grumpy demeanor is because I’ve obeyed my parents when it comes to my career, losing myself in the process. By giving in, I naturally protect myself by being guarded and sometimes defensive in all areas of my life.

I mean, he doesn’t know me that well.

Okay, he does, but these are things I don’t think about. Would rather avoid. They get stuffed in a little box and hidden away where they belong.

Because how do I thread this needle? If by leaving the firm, Mom loses her huge monthly check, where will that leave her? Broke and alone—in her words.

But I can’t be held hostage forever. Right?

The damage is done. I quit. There is no going back now.

And I have to admit, it kind of feels like relief.

A few days later, I’m packing for the “romantic” weekend getaway when I probably should be packing up my apartment because I no longer have a job, which undoubtedly means I’ll soon be homeless.

I’m being dramatic, which is not my usual style, but the dust hasn’t settled. This isn’t one of those situations where I wake up the next day and feel better about my life.

Being free of Chad-Phoenix is an improvement and shot of Penn is a revelation, but I’ve never been unemployed. Aside from that giving me major anxiety, my mother is going to—well, I don’t know what. And that’s the problem.

Again, with the drama, I know. I know. But she’s intense.

The buzzer on the wall in my apartment sounds. It’s Jill, who’s going to house sit and look after Leo, the Leopard Gecko. He came with the place. The previous renter left the little fella here and my landlord said I could keep him or throw him out.

Throw him out? I mean, really?! Who’d do that? I looked into a lizard rescue organization but became rather fond of the lazy little guy with his tail rattle morning greeting.

Flopping onto the couch, Jill instantly makes herself at home. Picking up right where we left off on our phone conversation yesterday, she says, “So, you’re going on a romantic getaway with a guy who isn’t Chad-Phoenix? Where’s the problem?”

“There’s, um, no problem with that, per se.”

“You seem especially grumpy which means you must be stressed.”

I bristle. How is it that guys get away with being grumpy, but I get called out by my mother, my sister Monroe, Teddy, and now Jill? “Probably the whole job thing.”

“You hate it. Again, I don’t see the problem. Only an amazing opportunity.”

“But I don’t have a solution for what I’m going to do next.”

“Um, hello, Sereni-Tea. You could start selling it,” she trills.

“I don’t think that’ll replace my income as a lawyer,” I deadpan.

Jill isn’t exactly a dreamer, but she does have holographic stickers on the back of her car, a large vintage T-shirt collection, and her most treasured possession is a guitar supposedly once owned by Dolly Parton.

She picks at her nails. “So, you and Teddy, finally. I wish my best friend were a hot hockey player.”

A push against the warm rush that flows through me. “I don’t think of him like that.” He’s my Steady-Eddie. We’ve been there for each other through all of life’s ups and downs. Our lives change, but not our friendship. Plus, he makes me brighter because I can get real dim, real fast.

Jill singsongs, “You should think about him like that.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Would you date him?”

“Don’t be silly.” I water my mint plant .

“How could I not be silly? My name is Jilly.”

“Only your parents call you that.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never once noticed that Ted Powell is undeniably attractive.”

I nonchalantly shrug.

“Or that you’ve never wondered what it would be like to kiss those pouty lips of his.”

I have . . . and worse.

Jill stares me down until I break.

“Yes, fine, but I was loopy on doctor-prescribed pain medication.”

She leans in and practically corners me. Jill also does roller derby and if I don’t ’fess up, she’ll take it out on me at our next practice.

“There was a little accidental text after I had my wisdom teeth extracted. I was loaded up on pain meds and sent a text that made me question my sanity the next morning.” And my heart.

“Did you mean to say that out loud?”

My eyes grow big and my cheeks flush. “No. It was never mentioned, so thankfully, he never read it and if he did, he’d have known that I was under the influence.” A stark possibility slaps me in the back of the head . . . unless he didn’t say anything to spare my feelings. My stomach fizzes like I chugged soda.

Clearing my throat, I add, “This is never to be repeated. Got it?” The look I give her is fierce because she knows the threat of roller derby rough housing goes both ways.

She nods vaguely because I have a mean hip whip on roller skates. “So, was it an accidental on-purpose text?”

I shift uncomfortably. “What? No, definitely not. Anyway, Teddy has seen me in my frumpy phase. ”

“Now you’re in your grumpy phase. But he doesn’t seem to mind.”

My hackles rise along with the tension that comes before I get defensive.

Jill asks, “Why would you care about your frumpy phase if you’re just friends?”

“You’ve seen my house pants. I think the frumpy thing is self-explanatory.”

She shakes her head slowly like I’m a hopeless case. “He’s also seen you at your best—wearing that gorgeous gown as Sahanna’s maid of honor, for instance. He looked at you like . . .”

I interrupt before my cheeks get redder. “Teddy was focused on his best man duties.”

Not going to lie, walking down the aisle as the maid of honor with him at my side as the best man was a bit nerve-racking. All our friends are pairing off and marrying, so we’ve been to a lot of weddings lately—usually in some official capacity, which means we walk down the aisle together. Ahem, it’s not like that has me thinking about future stuff. Much.

“You make it sound like we’re dating. We’d never. We’re just friends,” I repeat.

“ Just friends makes it sound inferior. Like ‘Oh, I’ll just have a coffee’ when I want a latte and a croissant. Or ‘I’ll just stand here at the back of the concert’ when I want the stage-side view.” Jill’s examples continue as I tune out.

She’s not wrong. My friendship with Teddy is so much more than just a casual connection, but it’s not a relationship. We’d never. It would ruin everything.

Flipping through a sports magazine I grabbed at the store to be supportive of my friend the defenseman, Jill says, “You’re in a fantasy hockey league right—didn’t Ted’s tips help you get to the playoffs last season?”

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be involved in fantasy hockey or any type of fantasy sports league, but Teddy insisted I participate.

At something in the magazine, Jill moans like she bit into a buttery, flakey, perfectly delicious pastry. “Let’s talk about hockey butts . . .”

Glancing over her shoulder, I see the featured article includes a few photos of none other than Ted “The Bear” Powell, aka my best friend.

She’s got me there. Teddy does have a spectacular butt.